


Want your kiss (‘cause I just can’t miss with a good luck charm like you)

by aliassmith



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliassmith/pseuds/aliassmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Clint and Phil kissed for luck and one time they didn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want your kiss (‘cause I just can’t miss with a good luck charm like you)

1.  
They’re in Vegas, the Bellagio, which is a side of the city Clint’s never seen before—the last time he was here it was all sawdust and glitter, with him stuck wearing a skin-tight suit that rode up his ass whenever he moved and...

...then again, maybe some things never change. 

Point is, this time around he’s here without the resin and crashmat, one foot balanced on a ceiling beam, the other braced against the wall, both eyes fixed on the target. Coulson’s voice crackles over the comm, _Target acquired. Widow, eyes on your four. Hawkeye, do you have a lock?_

Clint shuffles his foot over another inch, pressing hard into the wall to keep himself steady while he repositions his bow. “Affirmative.”

“Permission to engage?” Natasha pops up in his eye line, sidling up to Coulson with a slight waver to her step, and if Clint didn’t know there were at least five different knives hidden under her dress right now, he might even buy that she was just another bored trophy wife with an unhealthy fondness for mimosas.

Coulson gives a tight shake of his head, waits until the target moves through the door in the back of the room set aside for high rollers before finally nodding at Natasha. She’s standing right beside him now with an arm hooked loose around his, fingertips lazily stroking patterns into his suit. He leans down until his lips are pressed against her temple in what anyone would assume is a kiss, his muffled words echoing over Clint’s comm: _Hold cover as long as you can. We don’t want his security getting excited._

“Whatever you say, dear.” Natasha smiles up at him the same way a shark smiles at a school of baby salmon. Snatching up what’s left of her drink from the table, she projects her voice just enough for the guards to hear when she tells Phil she’s off to try her game with the big boys. “For luck?” she smirks and pecks him lightly on the lips before walking away, hips swaying and eyes calculating.

It takes about two minutes before there are very obvious sounds of a scuffle coming from the next room. Coulson sighs, pushing away his glass of untouched bourbon and stands up to meet the security team closing in on him. Clint kicks off from the wall and flips smoothly from his perch on the ceiling beam, dropping down next to Phil.

“Need a hand, sir?”

Coulson shakes his head. “I’ll handle this. Go help Widow clean the room.”

Clint can’t help but smile at the complete shift in personality that comes with Phil dropping his cover—the looseness gone from his shoulders, weight shifted to his back foot like he’s ready to throw the first punch, the easy smile he’s been flashing at Natasha all night vanished without a trace.

Basically, Coulson is Robocop. It’s not like you can blame Clint for wanting to mess that up a little. 

“Whatever you say, dear.” He echoes Natasha’s grin from earlier, leaning in. His lips make that clichéd smacking sound when they pull away from Coulson’s, and someone really oughtta tell Phil that Vegas has to be the worst place in the world to drop your poker face like that.

Clint smirks, turning back to face the ring of guards circling around them, arrow nocked and ready to fire. “For luck.” he explains, and laughs when he sees Phil’s eye twitching.

 

2.  
Coulson’s worried. Clint can tell. There’s a strain around his eyes that says Plan C just got fucked and he’s not sure they’re gonna make it out of this one in one piece.

Clint can also tell that the Plan D he’s been working on is probably going to make that tightening around Coulson’s eyes even worse. Still, if it’s a choice between his handler having to suffer through a tension headache or _everyone dying_...

The kiss is just a quick press of lips against the firm line of Coulson’s mouth, but it’s distracting enough to drive away some of his worry lines, a look of puzzled uncertainty setting up home instead.

“For luck.” Clint calls back to him, not bothering to turn around as he throws himself over the ledge of the roof, hoping to god the giant robot thing he’s aiming for has some kind of foothold on that shiny metal head of his.

It does. It also has a weakness in its casing directly below where its left ear should be, and is thankfully not impervious to exploding arrowheads. 

The crazy part—well, Clint thinks it’s the crazy part. Everyone else says the crazy part was the part where he _threw himself off a roof_ to singlehandedly take on a _giant robot thing from Mars_ —but no, the real crazy part is that he did all that and _survived_. 

Coulson’s been giving him shit about it for the past twenty minutes, but other than _Barton, jumping off skyscrapers is bad_ , Clint couldn’t really tell you where he was going with it, given that he’s spent a good thirteen of those minutes just watching the man’s lips move.

Maybe there’s something to this kiss-for-luck thing after all.

 

3.  
Clint hates Bolivia. It’s rainy and humid and he’s lost too many arrows in the leaf litter of the forest for him to be in anything resembling a good mood by the time Coulson pulls the team aside and tells them the enemy is moving in.

He knows without asking that Coulson’s feeling the same—he’s standing in a South American rainforest, hunting down some kind of sentient alien gorilla army (and yes, that’s gorilla, not guerrilla) wearing a Dolce suit and leather shoes, _of course_ he’s having a bad day.

Clint knows exactly two ways to lighten the mood when it comes to Phil Coulson, and given that Tony Stark isn’t around for them to stick post-it notes and various other office supplies to, he nods his head when Phil gives the order to strike and goes with Option B.

Coulson catches him by the collar before he can fully pull back from the kiss. “Barton, you’re working my last nerve.”

“I just thought you might want to wish me luck, sir.”

“Buy a rabbit’s foot. I’m not here to pander to your superstitions.”

Clint’s been an agent long enough to know a thing or two about superstition—he’s seen Carter with her compass and the little end zone dance Morse does before every mission. Hell, if he’s being honest, he’s got a quirk or two when it comes to using his bow that’s stuck with him since his Carnival days. Three kisses is hardly a superstitious habit.

Clint opens his mouth to tell Phil to lighten up, it’s a joke, it’s not like kissing him is a replacement for his lucky socks or anything. Phil wants him to back off, he’ll back off. Only he doesn’t say any of that, because Coulson still has one hand fisted in his collar and his eyes locked onto Clint’s, and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Clint’s started wondering if four kisses would make this a habit, because he really wouldn’t mind closing that last breath of space between them and starting something a little deeper with a lot more tongue than there has been so far. Coulson drops his hand from Clint’s neck, and Clint forces himself to take a few steps back.

He knows he started this whole thing as a joke but right now he can’t for the life of him remember what about this was supposed to be funny.

 

4.  
It’s not that he’s hiding in Coulson’s office, it’s just that he needed somewhere quiet and out of the way where no one would think to look for him. Somewhere he could prepare, calm his mind a little and, with any luck, stop freaking the fuck out.

They’re sending him to Waverly.

Well, not just him, they’re sending in the whole team this time, but the team needs a sniper, and it’s not like Fury’s been keeping him around for his looks. At least Clint hopes not.

It’s just, he hasn’t been back home in years. Not since Barney...since Barney... 

It’s been years, okay?

Fury didn’t say _they need you out there_ and he definitely didn’t say _you’re the only one for the job_ because Fury doesn’t say things like that. He’d handed Clint the file and said _you’ve got twenty minutes, Hawkeye_ , and _we’ll see you on the Carrier_ , which was more acknowledgement that Clint might need some breathing space before this one than Clint ever would have expected. Unfortunately, twenty minutes might not be enough for him to work up the will power to actually walk the distance between Coulson’s office and the helipad, let alone do all that with his game face on.

The door to the office opens so silently, Clint finds himself narrowing the number of people who could be on the other side to a grand total of two (discounting Fury, of course). So much for no one looking for him here.

Coulson wanders in, closing the door after him without looking up from his files, as if unlocking his office to find Clint Barton slumped behind his desk was an every day occurrence.

“You’re not dressed.” Clint wrinkles his forehead at the rolled up sleeves and distinct lack of sunglasses and handgun Coulson is currently sporting. Honestly, the man’s practically naked.

“I’m not going.” Phil drops the folders onto his desk and crosses his arms over his chest.  
“Fury’s assigned Sitwell for this one.”

Clint likes Sitwell well enough, but for whatever reason he can’t help objecting to that. “Why?”

“I didn’t ask. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Clint shrugs, slumping a little further into the chair.

“Natasha’s going to kick your ass if you don’t show up on time. She mentioned something about being home in time for _Man vs. Wild_.”

“It’s all reruns now. She’ll live.”

“She will.” Coulson pushes some files towards the middle of his desk, taking a seat at the edge. His eyes turn serious when he meets Clint’s gaze. “But she’ll have a better shot at that with you out there beside her.”

It’s all Clint can do not to sigh. “I have to do this, don’t I.” It’s not a question. Not really.

“You’re not the only one who can do this job, Barton,” Coulson pauses, making sure Clint knows he has options here if he really needs them, “but you are the one who _should_ do it.”

Clint nods. He knows all this already, and it’s not like he was ever going to let his team go out there without cover, it’s just... sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be reminded.

“I guess I’ll see you after the debrief, then, sir.” He pushes himself out of the chair and slides past Coulson where he’s perched on the desk. He makes it to the door before Coulson calls him back. 

“Barton,”

“Sir?”

Coulson’s up and moving, he’s got a hand on Clint’s jaw and before Clint can blink he’s being tugged forward into a kiss. It’s just a light press of lips, chaste and almost sweet, but then Coulson is pulling back to say something, probably “ _For luck_ ,” and his teeth catch against Clint’s lower lip and Clint is _gone_.

He cups a hand around Phil’s neck to pull him closer and _keep_ him there, sliding their lips together with an insistent pressure that has Phil’s eyes slipping shut and his mouth opening on a gasp. Clint wraps his other arm around his waist and pulls him forward until Phil’s weight is pressing Clint into the door, and Phil’s hand is sliding into Clint’s hair, tugging his head to the side and pushing closer as Clint licks his tongue against the swell of Phil’s lips.

And apparently that’s exactly what it takes to break the spell, because Phil is pulling back, fingers slipping from Clint’s hair—brushing over the back of his neck just enough to make him shiver—and the solid line of heat that had been pinning Clint to the door disappears.

“I--” Phil starts, but Clint has a pretty good idea that whatever the rest of that sentence might be, it’s nothing he wants to hear right now.

“I should get going,” he interrupts before Coulson has a chance to finish that thought. 

“Wouldn’t want to keep the team waiting.”

“Of course.” Phil nods, running a hand over his tie and taking another step back towards his desk. “Good lu-- uh... be careful out there.”

“Always am, sir.” Clint nods, making his way out the door and closing it silently behind him.

 

5.  
Clint can’t find Coulson.

He has to be on the quinjet in less than three minutes because they’re sending him to god damn Norway to fight some kind of overgrown rat things, and he’s looked everywhere but it’s like the guy’s just disappeared. He even tried asking Fury but all he got was a _Do I look like a damn GPS to you? Get out of my office, Agent_. 

And it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It really shouldn’t. It’s just...Phil’s always been there. Right before the thing with the Martian robot and the talking gorillas and again with fucking _Waverly_ , Phil was always right there. And now Clint’s getting sent to Norway and he heard somewhere that one of these things ripped a guy from the last team _in half_ with its _teeth_ , and he just...he’d really like it if he could see Phil before he went.

And okay, yeah, fine. Now might be a good time to admit that he might be a little superstitious.

Justifiably so, as it turns out.

The mission goes bad around the time they chase the crazy giant rat things into some swampland, which is apparently the equivalent of chasing Brer Rabbit into the briar patch. The agent flanking Clint’s left is dragged to the ground and pulled into brush so thick that Clint has no choice but to shoulder his bow and run in there after him.

He almost loses an arm for his pains, but thankfully these things are about as fond of exploding arrowheads as alien robots are, so there’s that at least.

It’s Coulson who finds him, in the end, but he’s in medical by that point and they’ve got him on the good drugs, so Clint’s not really sure anymore what it was that had him hunting Coulson down so doggedly earlier.

Coulson has an idea.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to yell at sick people?”

“You’re not sick, you’re just suffering from a severe case of stupidity.”

“That’s sweet, sir. You give this pep-talk to all the med-bay patients?”

“Not all of them, just the ones in here for letting their guard down over a ridiculous superstition.”

“I...what? I didn’t let my guard down.”

“No? You wanna explain to me why you’re sitting in a hospital bed with a roll of Ace bandages holding your arm together right now?”

“Uh, let me see, maybe because a giant rat tried to eat my face earlier today? They did tell you the part where I dragged Rodriguez’s comatose ass out of the swamp single-handedly, right? _Literally_ single-handedly?” Clint holds up his bandaged arm for emphasis.

“They did. What I’m really interested in, though, is why you thought you’d stand any kind of chance against those things once they hit swampland to begin with. Did you even read the file before going in there?”

“I...may have skimmed it.” Coulson keeps on glaring, so Clint throws his undamaged arm in the air. “They were giant rats! They die from arrows through the heart same as normal sized rats! What more did I need to know?”

“How about the part about their natural habitat being the wetlands? Or the section warning you that these things become absolutely lethal when they feel their territory is being threatened?”

Clint really doesn’t have an answer for that. Coulson sighs and makes an abortive motion with his arm, like he wants nothing more than to run a hand across his face in frustration, but he can’t because he’s Phil goddamn Coulson. “Answer me this, then, Agent Barton. What the hell was so important you missed your mission briefing this morning?”

“I...” and Clint can’t answer that one either. But judging by the look on Phil’s face, he doesn’t have to. Coulson knows. Of course Coulson knows.

“I told you I’m not here to pander to your superstitions, Clint. If you can’t keep your head in the game because your routine’s been broken, then--”

“It’s not that.”

“Not what?”

“It’s not about the routine. Or any superstition.” Clint thumbs at a loose thread on the blanket covering his knees. “I just... I just wanted to see you. And not because of the lucky charm thing either.” Clint looks up at Phil and offers him the beginnings of a smile. “You... being around you... it calms me down. Helps me focus.”

Coulson’s not saying anything, but he’s not looking away either, so maybe Clint hasn’t completely screwed things up just yet. He shrugs. “Well, most of the time it calms me down. I gotta say, that last time with you in your office wasn’t exactly the best way to get my mind on the mission.”

Coulson’s lip twitches and yeah, that there? That’s definitely a smirk.

“They really do have you on the good drugs, don’t they?”

“Nothing but the best for the guy who saved Rodriguez’s ass.”

“Single-handedly.”

“You’re damn right single-handedly.”

“I’m not letting this become a thing, Barton. I’m not always gonna be around to see you off before a mission. I’m not your war bride.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask that.”

“So what are you asking?”

“I’m... not sure. We could get coffee maybe? Or dinner? Talk some more about those mission briefings you like so much.”

“I should’ve known turning reports into pillow talk would be the only way you’d ever pay attention to them.”

“That your way of saying there’s gonna be pillow talk in our future, sir?”

Coulson lets the tiniest of smiles cross his lips. “I’m not saying anything of the sort until you’re fully healed and out of this hospital. That paper gown isn’t doing you any favours, Barton.”

“Pssh, just wait til you see me in it from behind. Your whole world’s about to get rocked.” 

Clint moves as if to throw off the blankets and stand, but Phil pushes him back down. “Let me take your word for it.”

Clint tucks his good arm behind his head and grins. “You know there are other ways you can get me to listen to those reports of yours. I’m a big fan of dirty talk, for one.”

“You think SitReps count as talking dirty?”

“You’re a smart man, Coulson. You’ll find a way to make it work.”

Phil’s face is as deadpan as ever, but there are crinkles in the corner of his eyes now, and Clint thinks this particular not-grin might be his favourite one yet. “All right, Agent. Time to sleep it off.” Coulson pats him on his non-injured shoulder and moves to walk away.

“Hey Phil?” Clint reaches out and wraps his fingers around Coulson’s wrist.

“Hm?”

“Wish me luck? With the whole getting better thing?”

Coulson shakes his head but the eye-crinkles grow just a little bit deeper. He takes Clint’s hand in his own and lifts it to his lips, brushing a soft, barely-there kiss across his knuckle.

“You’re an idiot.” His breath is warm against Clint’s skin.

 

+1.  
So it turns out not every mission turns into a disaster if Clint doesn’t get his good-luck kiss beforehand (just like not everything necessarily goes smoothly when he does).

For all Phil’s talk about routines being bad and luck being for idiots, Clint thinks it’s only fair to point out the entire lack of protest he puts up when thank-god-we’re-alive sex becomes the traditional way for them to end an operation. Even when the operation involves them repainting the third floor offices after one of R&D’s more notable failures, because really, who says you have to put yourself in danger before you can be thankful you’re alive?

Phil does make it a point not to send Clint off with a kiss before every battle, even if he is around for most of them. He’s not above doling them out like rewards, though, whenever Clint comes home from an assignment unharmed. He just wishes that it happened often enough for it to even come close to a tradition. 

Eventually, Coulson admits there’s not a whole lot he can do to break Clint’s superstitious streak. When a tattoo appears on the knuckle of Clint’s left hand—tiny, hardly-noticeable and basically invisible to anyone who isn’t looking—Phil doesn’t say a word. Instead he takes Clint’s hand in his and brushes his lips over the mark the same way he did when Clint was lying in that hospital bed. If he can’t always hold back the smile that wants to cross his face whenever he sees Clint do the same before heading into a fight, well... turns out there are a few superstitions Phil Coulson willingly condones after all.


End file.
